Web MD Fail

For the past couple weeks, whenever I get home from work (around midnight:30 or so) I smell cigarette smoke. I live on the fourth floor of our apartment building and my windows are open, so it totally makes sense that this smell could happen.

Jack smells nothing.

I have a better sense of smell than him anyways.


Last night though, I started smelling this cigarette smoke in my car. While I was driving. On the NEW JERSEY PARKWAY.

Jack's awake when I get home.
I tell him the story.

Jack: You should check on Web MD.
Me: No, it will just tell me I have cancer.
Jack: Well it could be a tumor.
Me: It's not a tumor.
Jack: Or a seizure disorder.
Me: I don't have a seizure disorder. Besides, my bipolar meds are also anti-convulsants.


We sleep.
I wake up.
I google "olfactory hallucinations"


More than likely I have a sinus infection (or an actual tumor).

Web MD?

Well when you search Web MD for "olfactory hallucinations" I don't get "sinus infection" or "seizure disorder."

I don't even get "tumor" or "cancer."


Nope.

I get this:

Brain Eating Amoeba


Yup.



So, I think I'll name my brain eating amoeba.
I'll call it Brian.

Mystical Magical Mystery Box

A few months ago (I know! I'm a bad blogger. How can I ever meet the gold standard? I can't even blog twice a month most times.

but I digress[1].

A few months ago my wonderful lovely friend Jen (who is a proper blogger) sent me a package. In college, she used to send me mail all the time. Mostly creepy cut outs from magazines. And I don't know if I ever sent one back because I'm bad at mail or any sort of communication in a timely manner. I mean, she'd send me mail even though we were roommates. That's how awesome she is.

So I got this package.
I was instantly afraid.
As I should be.


The outside was covered in unicorns[2].
The inside was full of awesome.

Exhibit A:

I won this book via Jen's dog blog[3]. It is about a man and his house chicken. Or something like that. I haven't read it.


Exhibit B:

A walkman? Really? Without headphones? It's a good thing I have my ipod. And my old mix tapes from my first-ish boyfriend still laying around...

But it's all good! Exhibit 3

Because we didn't get a close up of the cassette tape it is "Born to be Wild" Original Artists. Original Recordings. I would like to meet an unoriginal artist, perhaps that's what a cover artist is? I dunno. I understand the wording and what it means but it's like that restaurant: Legal Seafood. It begs the question what is Illegal seafood. Probably dolphins and whales.

And no, I haven't listened to this tape yet either.

The fourth thing I got:

A space dragon killing an astroid. Pure Awesome. Look! That's my excited face and everything! For the record, space dragons are awesome; space unicorns should die.

Yup I'm gonna stop numbering these things:

ACE OF SPAAAAAADDDDDDEEEEESSSSSSS

Really? A box of Altoids?

!!!!!!

I was wrong! Full of little stuff that is awesome! Look at those tiny seashells! And a monster with those floaty things so they don't drown because it can't swim!

What's next?

Socks that I haven't worn yet.

Sunglasses that make me look like Bono, but now that I have contacts again these have been coming in handy.

Urban Decay eye liner. Also very awesome and reminds me I need to actually buy makeup and stuff now that I have contacts...

Uh oh.
Umm.
This last thing.

Jack had no idea what was going on when I saw this.

IT'S A BABY YOU!

Granted, there are 3 other people besides me and Jen that understand the horror of Baby You. And the shenanigans that was our 3rd year of college.

Will this be sent on to a new home?
You bet your ass it will.
BWWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAha




So that is my mystery box.
I have a slow growing one for Jen in response. So in the future we will have a sister post.

I am always up for mail though, so if you really want to send me something, feel free. I like stuff.





[1] Heh, Jen's post also says this. BECAUSE WE ARE MIND CONNECTED.
[2] Fucking Unicorns. I hate them. Except for My Little Ponies. Those are awesome.
[3] One link to her blog per blog post. Sorry Jen. Those are "my rules."

Ocean at the End of the Lane

I went to see Neil Gaiman a few weeks ago. I've been wanting and waiting for months and years to meet him. And when I heard this was his last signing tour, I couldn't not go.

I wanted to show him my tattoo. And I did sort of. He was busy with signing hundreds of books and by the time I was there in front of him, I stuttered. I awkwardly showed him my tattoo and had my copy of Brief Lives in front of him to sign on the page where my ink is from.

I started to read his new book that night, while waiting in line to get it signed. I remember reading Amanda Palmer's review. I remember her words while Neil was talking about the book. I remembered her words while he was reading passages to the audience. 

There was no way I wasn't going to like the novel. There hasn't been a single thing that he's written that I didn't love. (Except Good Omens, I'm not a huge fan of that so much.) My gateway drug to the land of Gaiman was American Gods. Shortly after it was published a copy went around my circle of friends. Around almost the entire theatre department of my college to be honest. I fell in love. Eventually my friend Dave lent me the Sandman comics and Jacob watched over me as I read them, knowing they were going to affect me in a deep deep way. 

He was right. 

I don't think I cried as hard as I ever did at a series or book, before or since. There's just something that resonates to my deep soul. My deeper consciousness. I had never read anything like it. When people say something "moved" them, I had no idea what that truly meant until encountering this graphic novel. 

I reread the series earlier this year, or late last. I can't remember. But upon rereading, I found the words that became my tattoo. A clear headed crazy woman because someone needed to hold it together if her brother couldn't. There are things that even the person who knows everything doesn't know. There are ways to travel and understand that others just don't see or get. How can I not understand that?

The Ocean at the End of the Lane moved me like Sandman did. It touched me. I cried and was scared and I believe I've had some nightmares because of the book. My heart aches and I want to know more about the family and about the narrator. And about that land that is neither there nor here. I want to find those places in my life where I can dream and remember and feel that otherness. 

This is not a book for the day time. Read this book at night. In the quiet of 2am with a cup of tea that will probably grow cold as you read chapter by chapter. Read this book during a summer thunderstorm (like I did) that's as ferocious as the one you'll read in the pages. Read this book alone. And when you are finished, find someone to hug. 

Other people have said it, but yes I firmly believe that this is his best work yet. The Sandman comics are my water mark, and (like I stated before) this is at that level. 

It's a story about a boy and the wonderful and awful world his neighbor shows him. It all starts with a birthday cat. From there there's an opal miner. And then a nanny. And lots of other fantastic stuff. And more cats. And a fantastic storm. 

Not to mention, beautiful writing. 

And beautiful truths that I only half knew before going into this book:

"I'm going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don't look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they're big and thoughtless and they always know what they're doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren't any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world."

[...]

I thought about adults. I wondered if that was true: if they were all really children wrapped in adult bodies, like children's books hidden in the middle of dull, long adult books, the kind with no pictures or conversations. 

Read this book. Even if you don't like what I read. Read this book. You might not love it as wholly as I do. Actually, you can't: none of you are me. But I'm pretty damn sure this is a book that will stay with you long after you close the book. 

Especially when you look outside when it rains and just wonder. 

Father's Day

To be honest, I don't remember Father's Day when I was a child. (Nor Mother's Day for that matter.)

I guess after one's father dies, it's hard to care or think about it without hurting. Without being jealous of everyone else.

I learned very early on to get under people's skin and be highly amused at their reactions.

"What are you doing for Father's Day?"
"My father's dead."
"...."

The reaction never gets old.
I know, I know, gallows humor, but after all these years, I can't help but smile at this.


I've had 20 plus years to deal with this. 20. Twenty. It's almost unreal that one day I will be older than my father.




It took me a very very very long time to accept my step-father as my dad. Growing up with Bill was, to put it lightly, very hard. Granted, I was an undiagnosed hormonal teenage girl; I know I wasn't easy to deal with or parent. And on his end, I was the first daughter he ever encountered. Talk about a steep learning curve.

But accept him I do. He will walk me down the aisle when I get married (that is, if Jack and I can ever get our act together to plan this damn thing) whether or not he wants to. I am proud to say that I'm his first daughter. I may not be his favorite (oh come on, people, EVERYONE knows that my sister is the favorite. :P ), but I'm the first and really, the best, and the smartest, and the one that is amazing.


So, thank you Daddy and thank you Bill for raising me, both in your own strange fashion. I know for a fact that I wouldn't be where I am today if it wasn't for you two.

31

(My horoscope just explicitly told me that I need to get my ideas down on paper. To make the ideas in my head concrete. I guess I'll listen and actually write. You know how many blog posts I have in my head right now?)

I turned 31 a few weeks ago. 

I started this blog to specifically do things that I never done before. To go on adventures and get into trouble and just expand my life because I'm now a 30-something instead of a 20-something. 

I didn't accomplish much on my list. 

I did take a yoga class with Kurt. I did better than I expected to and felt more relaxed and alive than I had in a while. But have I gone back to take another class? Nope. Time and money barriers. Well, mostly money barriers because of life things. 

I did go to New York Comic Con. AND IT WAS AWESOME. I plan on going again this year, but 3-day tickets have already sold out. I will try my hardest to get some at least a ticket for Friday and Saturday. I didn't cosplay (dress up) last year due to the fact that I had surgery a few days before hand. But this year I plan to. There's no reason for me not to. Jack and I got some fantastic art that we only recently got up on our walls, and I can't wait to get more. 

Ha! I had forgotten that "visit Atlantic City" was on there! I did! I went to Atlantic City for my birthday actually. I lost $40, went to a club, and danced. Had some tasty drinks too. There may be a video of me dancing on the book of faces... We did take a ton of silly-ass pictures, and for a change, even the silliest ones don't embarrass me. 

3 out of 30-ish items isn't that bad! I do plan on doing the others! Perhaps I'll shoot for 4 this time...

------

There were some other things I accomplished. Like getting a new job, a new apartment, and an engagement ring. 

It's been a strange year. Finding my voice. Sharing my voice with new people. Going back to my geeky roots and embracing my spirituality. 

I'm reading tarot cards again, and digging into the meanings. I'm finding I'm learning a lot and truthfully, I haven't felt more at home with them. I was told by someone that reading cards was my super power. I don't know if he knows how much that made me smile. 

I'm writing again. Small little poems. Some are actually kind of decent. Others aren't, but not everything can be a winner. 

I'm slowly coming off my medication too. I'm finding I'm more stable now that life has settled down some. Not that I'm not moody still. I'll always be bipolar, but I'm trying to handle it more. Focus my energy differently. Being more aware of my warning signs for a upswing and downswing.  The new found spirituality has helped. Also, pushing myself to actually accomplish things helps too. 

Trying to tear down the walls that I set up to keep people out. Trying not to be the hedgehog. 

Trying to be a child of the universe as well as a child of communication. 

Realizing that I'm supposed to write. That when asked what I would do if money was not an issue, I keep saying that I'd be a writer. Why can't I actually get that through my skull?

So here I am. 

Thing change.
Fuck the status quo. 

I guess I am trouble.

real vs real

Everything looks real, and therefore it is real; in any case the fact that it seems real is real, and the thing is real even if, like Alice in Wonderland, it never existed. 

-- Umberto Eco Travels in Hyperreality "Travels in Hyperreality"

There was a conversation I had the other day with Jack. It was when I was more or less depressed (well more depressed than I normally am). He mentioned how he never understood why I don't have a sense of self. He knew who he was at a very early age, whereas I am always in flux. Of course there are things about myself that will never change, my snarky-ness, my seemingly non sequiturs,  my depression and my mania. But who I am changes with the people I surround myself with. I am the same girl who can go to a gay club and dance the night away, then only to stay inside for days on end reading my epic  fantasy or deconstructing meta fiction. 

I am a constant state of flux. 

I have these obsessions (? that's not really the correct word, but it will do) that deal with reality. Am I really here? Are you? Are you really just constructs of my mind put here in order for me to grow/learn/change/evolve? Or are we not really here at all ala The Matrix? OR am I just a replicant ala Bladerunner? Is my past fabricated? Are the people I call friends and family real or not? What is the definition of "real" and "reality" anyways?

Sometimes, I wake up in a panic not knowing these answers. 

Even though, at the same time, I know these answers don't matter. Because, regardless if we are all just constructs or holograms, this is all we know. Our fantasy is reality only because we don't know anything else. 

One would say that I need to be content with this, but I'm not. I can't be. 

I constantly question myself. My actions, my thoughts, trying to figure out why I do anything. Why people come into my life so rapidly and change my perspective on things. Why I don't do the things that attract my attention (moving to Brooklyn for one. Actually writing everything that's in my head is another. Creating the art I promised people. Writing the letters. Hanging out with the people who asked me to) 

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm bipolar. My moods swing so much and so drastically  that how can anything really be "real." Is there a "real Kelly?" I guess the correct answer is that everything I do is "the real Kelly," but it's hard to accept that answer when everyone else seems to know who they are. How can I be conflicting ideas and emotions? How can every answer be right? 

How can my way of life be wrong though? It's the only life I've had. 

There's a line that I spoke in the play that I took one of my tattoos from:

I'm in the middle,

knowing 

neither the end

nor the beginning. 

And it's true. I can't explain how I will ever end, nor can I really explain how I began. I am not defined like that. 

Which brings me back to the quote. I know there is another one by Daniel Dennett that I can't for the life of me remember but I did write a paper on it my senior year of college. (another time where I was obsessed with this idea of reality) And brings me back to what Jack and I were talking about: is my identity an identity if I don't have a sense of self?

(And people wonder why I relate so well to Rei in Neon Genesis Evangelion)

exes

The words we give
each other to read.

The sounds to listen to.


Years later, repeat with another.

And another.

And another.

Remix, repeat.

You try to change the
connotations.

Negative
to positive.


Words and
questions
never leave your
lips.

After all these years

Does he still think you're pretty?
Will he still listen to those songs and smile and think about you?
Will he remember the taste of your lips fondly?